Dreamers and Addicts and Lost Souls
by cathedral carver
Summary: Talk into my bullet hole, tell me I'm fine. Written for the December 2011 round of Sherlockmas.


**Title**: Dreamers and Addicts and Lost Souls  
><strong>Author<strong>: cathedral carver  
><strong>A gift for<strong>: sheffsfic  
><strong>CharactersPairing**: Sherlock/John  
><strong>Category<strong>: Slash  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG

**Summary**: Talk into my bullet hole, tell me I'm fine.

Written for the December 2011 round of Sherlockmas.

xx

_The Dreamer_

His therapist thought they started after the war. His therapist was wrong, but, she was wrong only because John _told_ her they started after the war. In truth, nightmares had played a vividly violent role in his nightly existence for, well. For _ever._

Of course, the earlier nightmares didn't involve heavy artillery gunfire and his mates with their limbs blown off, convulsing in his arms, gagging on blood, clutching his hands and begging him to tell their wife/mother/child they loved them.

_Don't forget, John. Don't forget. Please._

_I won't. I won't._

_Promise?_

_Promise._

Some days it was difficult to remember the Good Dreams, but if he tried, very hard, he was back in his childhood kitchen, bleary-eyed and tousled-haired, eating his breakfast, recounting the previous night's Good Dreams in glorious, dramatic detail to his mum (complete with facial expressions and vocal enhancements) before she left for work.

Dreams of being locked in the local sweets shoppe overnight.

Racing on his bicycle and winning, always winning.

Having a dog of his very own.

Showing up at school without his trousers, which, while embarrassing and nightmarish to some, was _nothing_ compared to the dreams he _didn't_ talk about.

His mum would always listen attentively, smile and touch the top of his head and say, "You're such a dreamer, Johnny."

Back then, the only nightmares he had involved his mum or dad dying. John never talked about those, and his mum never pressed when she saw him hesitate, or heard his voice falter, and he loved her even more for that.

"What about you, Harriet?" she'd ask instead. "What did you dream about?"

Harry shook her head. She always did. "Nothin'," she'd mumble around a mouthful of toast. "Don't have dreams."

John would huff. "Everyone dreams."

Harry would huff back. "I don't."

"You _do_. You just don't remember." Which he could not quite get his mind around. How on earth could someone _not remember_?

Once he dreamed he was strangling Harry in her bed, another one he didn't talk about, but he never forgot it, the sensation of his cold, stiff hands around her soft, warm neck, her fingers scrabbling feebly at his arms, her wheezes, her garbled pleas. When John awoke, he was sweat-soaked and sobbing into his pillow. He couldn't look at her for days after that, not even when she kicked his shin sharply under the table and threatened to tell their parents about his run-in with Peter Dallow on the way home from school.

But, back then, the _best_ dreams where the flying dreams, oh, those were the best by far. Soaring above towns and fields and houses and friends and he would get so excited he'd shout with joy and—

Of course, talking in his sleep presented a bit of a challenge — especially if Harry, who shared his room until he was 10 and was finally, blissfully, permitted to move into the cramped attic, he didn't care, it was his _own space_ — happened to hear.

On those occasions, she would march over in the dark (Harry was scared of nothing, ever, especially not monsters under the bed, even if John swore he saw them) and smack him hard, on the side of his head, or right in the stomach, if she was feeling particularly hostile, and yell at him to _wake the hell up_.

"You were dreaming again," she would hiss, her mouth right at his ear.

"Yeah, I was," he would mumble. He wanted to pinch her, hard. "It was a Good one, too, for once."

"Ooh." Harry grinned, teeth and eyes flashing in the dark. "Marian Davenport? I've seen how you look at her across the playground. _Everyone_ has."

"Sod off," John said, pulling up the blankets and rolling away from her. It _had_ been about Marian, for Christ's sake, and now it was gone, ruined.

"Next thing you know you'll be having _wet_ dreams," she said, disgust heavy in her voice. "Ugh. Boys are so _revolting_."

To get back to a Good Dream, John would scrunch his eyes tight and clutch his blanket in his balled fists and think Good Thoughts until he fell asleep again and flew far, far, far away from everything and everyone.

Marian, he chanted. Marian Marian Marian Marian.

He was flying, now.

Marian.

High above the town, the school, his house, everything. He smiled.

_Marian_.

xx

_The Addict_

He learned very early on how the Game went. The "Game" being getting what he wanted, and how to go about it. Getting what he wanted, that is. And games? He knew all about _games_. Games were what made life worth living. If there was no Game to play, then what was the _Point_?

One of the games was Treasure Hunt. For Treasure Hunt, Sherlock pretended he was Invisible. Once he was Invisible, he sneaked about the house, slipping in and out of rooms as quietly as he could, picking up small objects here and there, and slipping them into his pockets (they had to be able to fit in his pockets or it wasn't playing Fair). He'd take those stolen (borrowed) objects back to his room and place them on his bed, in a tidy row, and sit and stare at them. He'd keep them until someone noticed they were missing, upon which he would return them, sometimes with an apology, but mostly without. If no one noticed, the item belonged to him. That was the Game, and those were the Rules. If he didn't follow the Rules of the Game, then what was the _Point_?

The Game was loads of fun, and though he'd been told (threatened) to Stop many times by various adults (Mummy, Nanny #1 and #3, Carlotta the cook), he could not. He _could not stop_. And, contrary to what everyone seemed to think, he _did_ try. But, the Game was too much fun and the prospect of getting caught was exhilarating and winning was Everything and what on earth would he do for fun if he stopped?

But then there was the day Father caught him in the bathroom trying on Mummy's lipstick, and that wasn't much fun at all. He was trying on Mummy's lipstick because he'd managed to nick it from Mummy's bedside table (part of the Game, and he'd been Invisible, so it was Fair), and so far Mummy hadn't noticed, so it was his (also Fair), and it was a deep, vibrant shade of red (Ruby) that reminded Sherlock of blood, so he busied himself in the bathroom, smearing it rather messily over his lips and admiring the rather horrific/pleasing/erotic result. Until Daddy appeared in the doorway, hand over his mouth, eyes wide with something close to horror. He'd turned on his heel and went to find Mummy. Sherlock could hear his thunderous voice from upstairs, rolling on and on and on and _on_.

Sherlock slid the sleek, silver tube into his pocket and hid under his bed until the yelling stopped and it was late and Mycroft was lying on the floor, peering at him, eyes wide and slyly knowing in the half-dark.

"It's all right, you know," his brother whispered. Sherlock shook his head, whipping up puffs of dust. The housekeeper had been neglectful again. He sneezed. Again. And _again_.

"Thanks. Don't want to come out yet," Sherlock wheezed.

"No, no." Mycroft shook his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock wanted to laugh. That was something _Mummy_ did when she was _consternated_. "I mean, it's all right." He was staring at Sherlock's mouth. He nodded slightly and narrowed his eyes. "It's _all right_."

(It's fine it's all fine)

Sherlock stared at his brother. He licked his lips. They tasted of beeswax and cocoa butter and lanolin and and. And D&C Red No. 21.

He blinked rapidly.

Sadly, they didn't taste of blood _at all_.

_The Dreamer_

The dreams changed as he got older, of course.

Harry had been right about the wet dreams, though he never spoke of them, ever, but his mum knew, as mums do, desperate as John was to hide the evidence the morning after.

Dreams of _sex_, of giving it to Marian Davenport behind the school and Nora Keyes in the gymnasium, and even Mrs. James, his piano teacher, against the piano, for a brief brief _brief_ period of time.

And later, much _much_ later, dreams of dying, of death, bullets and bullet holes, blood and the stink of burning flesh and—

He hardly ever had flying dreams anymore, he realized. He couldn't even recall when they'd stopped. Now, instead of soaring, he dreamed of plummeting, falling through vast darkness and space, arms and legs scrabbling for purchase but finding none. He always awoke with a start and a desperate gasp, clutching his chest, the bed sheets, or whoever happened to be lying next to him.

"What's wrong?" they would say, sometimes with anger, sometimes with worry, but mostly with fear. John would never say. He'd only shake his head and assure them everything was fine, fine, fine, and to go back to sleep.

Yes, the falling dreams were horrible, but so far he hadn't hit bottom, and for that he was grateful, because dreaming of hitting bottom meant you were dead.

Everyone knew _that_.

xx

_The Addict_

The hard, harmful drugs came later, of course, but in the beginning there were _other_ drugs, ones meant to Help.

"There's nothing wrong with you," his mother assured him time and again, even as she handed him the colourful capsules with a cup of cool water. "The greatest minds are always misunderstood."

He would nod and swallow, dutifully.

She rested a soft hand on his softer curls and whispered. "You are in for years of suffering, my dear boy." He wasn't sure if he was meant to hear those words, but he never forgot them. And they were true, even if he didn't quite understand them at the time.

He did have a great mind, which got him into a great deal of trouble right from the start, and the trouble was addictive, even though he didn't understand that, either, at the time.

Some days he wandered away from school for hours and hours, not stumbling home until dark (Where _were_ you? I…don't remember), to find Mummy sobbing and Father bellowing and Mycroft glaring with suspiciously shiny eyes.

Some days he didn't get out of bed at all, preferring to lie still and curled on his side for hours and hours, creating worlds and adventures inside his Great Mind, infinitely preferable to anything in the Real World.

Some days he forgot his own name.

This was before the medication, of course, when he'd still been able to hide it from Mummy, and mostly from Nanny, but the forgetting frightened him. It terrified him, awaking in the night, lump in the throat, something hot and heavy and angled pressing down on the middle of his chest. Not, _where am I_, but—

Who am I?

_Who am I?_

Then came the night everything changed, when medication/Help Pills became a regular/accepted daily routine, because when They found him, every wall in his room was covered in scribbles, ranging from small and clear and slate-coloured to large and illegible and scrawling and bloody. His name, over and over and over, because he was terrified he would wake up one morning and Not Know.

Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.

__. Over and over and over until his arm ached with it—

And when the pen ran out, he used pencil. And when the pencil ran out, he used lipstick. And when the lipstick ran out, he used blood. And when the blood ran out—

xx

_The Lost Souls_

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" John shouted once at a crime scene, and god help him, Sherlock _flinched_.

Oh, it was warranted, Sherlock realized, even if he never acknowledged it, and he never would. Never.

Ever.

There was a man missing. The man was missing, along with his young wife, their infant daughter and half a million pounds.

Crime scene. Blood. Bone. _Brain_ for Christ's sake. And Sally, who loathed him, for valid reasons. But John was there, too. John. How to even explain John? How to fit him into any kind of neat, categorized category of boxes and filing systems? And the brain was there, on the wall, and it was the Missing Man's brain, and Sherlock was obsessed with the Missing Man and he reached out a finger and touched the grayish/white mass, and moved that finger back towards his mouth and—

Well. That's where all the trouble began.

Except, not really. The trouble had begun so much longer before that.

"What's the matter?" Lestrade yelled. Sally looked up, and Anderson, too, oh fuck fuck fuck, and John shoved his hands in his pockets and didn't say another word, but everyone knew there was something. Something.

"What's the freak done now?" Sally said, lips twisted, and Sherlock wanted to punch her. Or run. Or, punch her _and_ run.

Anderson smirked. Stupid, stupid man.

"Nothing," John snapped, loud enough for all to hear. "Nothing. It's nothing. Forget it."

And everyone tried to, except for Sherlock.

"I don't know," he said so quietly John had to lean forward to catch it.

"I'm…sorry. I shouldn't have said that," John was contrite, his face gone red, his eyes gone soft. "Sherlock? Did you hear me? I…shouldn't have said that." He came closer, kneeling next to Sherlock, who was still kneeling next to the brain that he was Not Allowed to Taste.

Sherlock let his head fall on John's shoulder, his warm, flannelly shoulder. He rubbed his face against it.

"Sherlock—"

"If you find out, let me know, would you? We've been waiting, such a long time, for the answer to that question."

xx

"I don't really think there's anything wrong with you," John said later, carefully, as if speaking around a mouthful of broken glass. "I hope you know that."

Sherlock huffed. "Yes, you do."

"I don't."

"Why not? It's perfectly true."

"It's a matter of perception, Sherlock."

"I'm different."

"Of course you are. That's what I like about you."

Sherlock looked askance at him, but didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the spell. John cupped a mug between his hands. It was late. They both should have been asleep, but there were things to settle, if that was even possible. Sometimes Sherlock didn't think his life would ever be settled. Sometimes he didn't want it to be.

"I saw a psychic once, years ago now," John said at last. He spoke to the mug. He may as well have been speaking to himself, but Sherlock was rapt. "She told me I'd be alone forever."

Sherlock exhaled. "And?"

John chewed his bottom lip. He looked up at last. "Guess I need my money back, yeah?"

xx

John had been keeping a dream journal for months now, at the suggestion of his therapist. When he awoke at two, three, four in the morning, sweaty and shaking, he'd lean over, snap on the small bedside light, grab his pen and scribble down images and colours and feelings, anything floating close enough to the surface to capture.

Sometimes, in the morning, he couldn't read what he'd written.

Sometimes he didn't want to.

xx

"What are you doing?" John asked as he rounded the corner. He already knew the answer, but sometimes he liked to play along. Kept things interesting. He tossed an armful of clean clothes on the bed.

"Reading your dream journal," Sherlock said. He didn't even bother to look up.

"Uh huh. Why?"

"Dreams are reflections of our innermost thoughts and feelings, John. Images of ourselves, the ones we're afraid to release to the daylight."

"Yes. I know this. That's why I've taken to writing them down, you see."

Sherlock turned a page. He frowned. John waited.

"You dreamed about _me_ two nights ago."

John sighed. Sherlock finally put the journal down and looked at him, fixed him with a steady eye.

"I did."

They stared at one another.

"Well, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," Sherlock said.

"I'm not."

"It's a perfectly normal thing for my presence to makes its way into your sleeping mind. Nothing to worry about."

"Who said I was worried?"

"I mean, you spend more time with me than with practically anyone else, so—"

"Sherlock. It's fine. Really. Nothing happened. It's not like I dreamed we were having sex or anything."

The words hung in the air between them and the bell jar lifted and John suddenly heard them, how they sounded, and he wished he could suck them back in. His face had gone quite red, he knew. He really didn't have anything else to say. Sherlock cleared his throat and John saw that _his_ cheeks had gone a peculiar shade of crimson.

"Well, right. As I said. All perfectly natural, regardless."

"All right," John agreed. "I'm not arguing with you."

xx

Then another man was missing, but this time the man was John, and it was an ordinary winter's evening and Sherlock just about lost his mind.

The suspect, Nagy, was in his car, parked across the street as Lestrade and his crew scoured the latest blood-soaked pavement, and Sherlock knew he was watching them, and Nagy knew Sherlock was watching him watch them, so Sherlock, in his infinite wisdom, sent John to talk to the man, because John was smaller and unassuming, non-threatening, with a kind face. John sighed and frowned, but agreed, because that's what he did, and he ambled across the street in his good-natured way, hands tucked in his pockets, chin tucked into the front of his coat.

John leaned down to speak to Nagy, something innocuous, something brief, non-confrontational. It was supposed to be as simple as that. Talk to the man, get a description (Voice, John! Clothing, smell, what did he eat for dinner?), and then walk away.

Simple as that.

John leaned down, Nagy reached up and that's when all hell broke loose. He grabbed John's head and slammed it against the door frame hard, once, knocking John unconscious, and then Nagy was dragging him into the front seat _so fast_ that Sherlock wondered if it had happened at all.

Nagy looked over at Sherlock. He smiled. He drove away.

Sherlock may have screamed. He definitely punched something, like the brick wall behind him. Then he began running, yelling for Lestrade, anyone to follow, quick now now _now_.

And it was another Game, but a Not Fun one, not in the least, even if John was the most important Treasure of all.

xx

This wasn't really how John envisioned his demise, awakening in the boot of a car with a raging headache and a nauseating sense of doom.

He lay still and listened. The car was moving, of that he was certain. He was no longer in the front. He hands were bound behind his back. He was sore and cramped. He was probably going to die.

He wondered what Sherlock was doing. He wondered how long it would be before his body was found. Not that he'd given up, not completely, but he knew the odds were stacked against him this time. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't blame himself for too long.

He closed his eyes and pictured Sherlock's face.

He imagined Sherlock voice, telling him to stay calm, to focus, to pay attention to the details.

He made a list of things he should have said to Sherlock had he'd known this was his last day on earth.

1) I didn't mind the mess as much as I led you to believe.  
>2) The violin became my favourite instrument in the world.<br>3) I dreamed about you a lot more than I wrote.  
>4) A lot.<br>5) I was well on my way to falling in love with you before—

The car stopped moving. John held his breath. He heard the driver-side door open, but not slam shut, the clatter of something metallic on the ground (Keys. Keys! See, Sherlock what you've taught me). Door slammed shut. The driver (Nagy?) walked to the back of the car, placed his hands on the boot, grunted with exertion as he began to push. The car rolled smoothly and so slowly at first, but picked up speed at the end. There was a small, gentle splash, followed by a gentle buoyancy. Water. John's eyes widened. He was in water. It was with that realization that he finally began to panic for real. He started screaming and pounding on the roof of the boot with the full force of both legs.

The car bobbed once, twice, then began to sink at an alarming rate. Cold water poured in, soaking John. He struggled to sit up, to angle his mouth up, away from the water for as long as possible.

John scrunched his eyes closed at the end, pictured that face once more: Sherlock, he thought.

The water climbed higher.

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.

Oh, he was flying, now.

Sherlock.

High above the water, the car, his own body, everything. He smiled.

_Sherlock_.

xx

The boot of the car flew open, flooding John's world fully with icy cold water and bright, icy moonlight and Sherlock's frantic white face.

He was being hauled quickly and roughly from the small space, splashing through water, up onto the shore. He heard a lot of noise then, a lot of voices yelling, asking if he was all right, if he was hurt, no no, he was not hurt, just sore and (scared, so very scared).

"You found me," he said to Sherlock, because Sherlock was right in his face.

"I followed you," Sherlock said, his voice not like his own at all, like a shell of his own voice, hollow and about to crack wide open at the slightest provocation. "Lestrade…he. We. Followed the car. Lost sight a few times…but. Yes."

"Yes." John's head fell back against something soft and wet and cold. Sherlock wouldn't stop looking at him, but that was all right, it was quite all right, because he couldn't stop looking at Sherlock, either, framed as he was by the moon and stars and all that blackness. "Well. Here we are."

Then he passed out.

xx

"Your hand."

Sherlock stared. What? What was he saying? He couldn't even understand. Was John delirious? It's possible. He'd hit his head pretty hard, though he hadn't been under water for more than a minute. The doctor had checked him thoroughly, only an overnight stay, all was well. Sherlock shifted in the incredibly uncomfortable plastic chair and realized yes, his own hand was bandaged. He'd completely forgotten.

"You broke…bones. In your hand."

Yes. Yes? All right. Fine. What? What was the…problem, exactly? Sherlock, determined to be _polite_, to not _upset_ John, continued to wait.

"Your…poor hand." John said/slurred, made a swipe at Sherlock's bandaged hand (Why? Why? What? Why? It was just a hand, it would mend, after all, and what did he need his _hand_ for? John was alive, he was here, and what were bones? A hand? Really?) "What…did you do?"

"I punched a wall," Sherlock said, because it was true, because John seemed intent on knowing, and if knowing would make John rest and sleep and continue to get better, than so be it. But knowing did _not_ seem to help John, dammit. Knowing seemed to upset John even more.

"You did _what_?"

Sherlock shook his head. Didn't matter. Why did John even _care_?

"Listen," Sherlock said, leaning forward towards the narrow white bed. John was very white in it. "_Listen_ now."

"All right."

Sherlock leaned forward even more, so his forehead was almost touching John's. "What would I have done if I'd never found you?" he whispered. "I'd be dead, I think. Dead or insane or locked up or in politics—"

"But, you did find me," John said. He shifted under the sheets, grimacing as his shoulder jarred.

Was it as simple as that? Really? Sherlock blinked.

"You did, right?" John sighed. "You did. It's okay."

"All right," Sherlock said, because it was easier. "I'm not arguing with you."

"Good," John smiled. It was rather a loopy smile. Someone had given him medication. "I had the best dream," he murmured, just before he drifted away.

"Did you?" Sherlock tilted his head. He touched the skin of John's neck with one finger. It was all he could manage.

"Yeah." John smiled. "We were _flying_."

xx

John awoke in the middle of the night because he was very uncomfortable. And hot. A narrow hospital bed was clearly made for one person, and right now there was more than one person in it, and the person taking up most of the space was not the patient.

John shifted and tried to move his right arm, which was firmly wedged under Sherlock's slightly sweaty neck.

"Sherlock," he said. Christ his head hurt. He could feel Sherlock's lips on his cheek, light puffs of warm breath skittering across his skin. Maybe he didn't want him to move after all. Except, he couldn't feel his arm. "Sherlock."

Sherlock startled and lifted his head. John groaned and moved his arm. Pins and needles, pins and needles. His shoulder was on fire. Sherlock lay his head down on the pillow. John could feel his eyes on him, even in the dark.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock whispered. His hand lay on John's chest, his fingers splayed open.

"Sore."

Sherlock nodded. His hair tickled John's ear. It wasn't unpleasant. They lay quietly for a bit. John wondered what he'd do next.

"Here," Sherlock said at last, and he took John's hand and placed it on his own heart.

"What?" John said, confused.

"My heart," Sherlock said. Then, again as if speaking to a dull brain, "My _heart_."

John left his hand there for a moment, feeling the steady if slightly elevated thudthud.

"Right. Your heart."

"Well, it's my present. To you."

"All right."

"It's your birthday, yes?"

"No," John started to say, then stopped. Did he say _rebirthday_? His head hurt so much.

"It's my _present_—"

"Yes. Right. Yes. _Yes_."

"Okay. Yes." He paused. "Thank you."

"Yes?"

"Yes." John turned his head just a bit, enough that he could kiss Sherlock's forehead. "Thank you."

_Yes._.

Then Sherlock whispered something, almost silently, with his face pressed to John's neck and his eyes closed, too, for good measure. But, John heard him anyway.

"I love you, too."

"Yes."

John smiled.

"But, I don't want to love you," Sherlock said, and the words came out all strangled.

"Yeah." John sighed. "I know that, too."

xx

John awoke alone and panicked for a moment before he saw Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed. He was holding a cup of water.

Sherlock handed him water. His eyes were bright and nervous.

"What did you dream about?" His fingers plucked at the blanket.

"Last night?" John paused. He smiled. His head was a dull throb. "I don't remember. I think you were in it, though."

"Hmm."

John nodded. He sipped the water. "I seem to recall now."

"You'll have to write it down."

"When I get home."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "Before you forget."

How they managed to find one another is, really, pure luck, and an amusing story for another time. How they managed to _save_ one another is, really, the stuff of legend.

xx

It was cold and grey. Snow was coming. John wished he'd worn a warmer coat, or borrowed Sherlock's scarf, maybe, to keep warm, but also because it would smell like him. But regardless, he was well-rested and glad to be alive, and there were no bones broken, no stitched skin, and there was another dead body, another case for Sherlock to solve.

Sherlock knelt by the body. He bowed his dark head, eyes scanning, brain calculating, heart thrumming. He, too, felt very alive.

Everyone watched and waited. Lestrade stamped his feet to keep the cold at bay. He tried not to think too loudly. No one spoke, until—

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, without turning around, without looking up. "I need you."

xx

_-30-_

*Summary is a line from the glorious _Jesus' Son_ collection of short stories by Denis Johnson.


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